Unforgivable
by CantansAvis
Summary: "To not know is bad. To not want to know is worse. To not hope is unthinkable. To not care is unforgivable." -Nigerian Proverb Steve's stopped caring. But there's one junior agent out to help him. Steve & OC friendship.


**A/N: **Updates for this story will occur at least once every two weeks (I tend to get writer's block for this one).

* * *

Captain Steve Rogers watched as the grey world- full of pinprick buildings and people bustling about all with their mothers, and fathers, and sisters, brothers, friends, lovers- below him come closer, and closer, and-

"Ladies and gentlemen, we will be landing momentarily. Welcome to London."

Steve pulled his eyes away from the world below him and leaned back into his chair. A flight attendant, her lipstick a shade too red, approached him.

"Sir? We will be landing soon; could you please buckle up?" Steve nodded, his fingers following orders automatically, his mind wandering to another girl with lipstick a bit too red.

"_All right. A week next Saturday at The Stork Club."_

Steve felt his stomach drop towards his feet, towards the ground of that city she talked oh so much about, towards that grave, _those graves_…

"_Eight o'clock on the dot. Don't you dare be late. Understood?"_

His ears popped. He wished he had turned off the little AC above his seat. He couldn't stop his mind from reeling, backwards, out of control.

"_You know, I still don't know how to dance."_

"_I'll show you how. Just be there."_

Steve could hear the screech of tires against tarmac, and the little gasp of the flight attendant who had told him to buckle up. Steve let go of the arm rests he hadn't realized he'd been clutching, the combination of metal and plastic twisted out of shape. He glanced at the flight attendant, now frightened and fleeing towards the captain's cabin.

Steve sighed. He really ought to stop flying places. He wasn't quite ready. It was easy on a mission. He was going to jump out soon anyway, wind caressing his face, a gust he could, if only for a moment, pretend was a hand, slim and calloused. At least until Stark or Barton or Romanoff yelled at him to pull his cord. Or he was getting shot at. Whichever came first.

* * *

It's been a long day for Captain America. And he's had very long days before.

Steve glances at his watch. 7: 53. The speedometer of his rental races past 80 mph (_She'd probably start ranting about the metric system._). He promised. He wouldn't be late. He _couldn't_ be late.

If only that flight attendant hadn't nearly fainted. Or the captain hadn't asked for his autograph, "from Captain to captain." Or the practically inescapable tourists hadn't chased after him. And then the police cruisers…

Steve shook his head, wanting to just forget everything else. He was on a mission. 7:57. He saw the rendezvous point. Though it wasn't exactly what either person had imagined.

He parked the car, swiftly and neatly, in a swerve that would cause his commanding officer to both smile and scold. Steve rushed outside, watch ticking. 7: 59.

He weaved through the labyrinth, the wet grass soaking his worn shoes, his eyes shifting, quickly, furiously, as he searched for his target. _There_. He glanced at his watch. Twenty seconds left.

_20. _

He never imagined that he would be here.

_19. _

No, not in this situation.

_18. _

Not in this body. So young, so agile. So old. So tired.

_17._

Would she remember him?

_16._

Would she remember that faded out music?

_15._

Those tried and true dance steps?

_14._

Or had she forgotten?

_13._

Or maybe she thought _he _had.

_12._

Well, he could never forget.

_11._

Because you can't forget what never happened.

_10._

He wondered what would have happened.

_9._

He wondered what had happened.

_8._

He had read the report.

_7._

But it couldn't be true.

_6._

But it was.

_5._

Now here he was. Runningrunningrunning.

_4._

Towards what?

_3._

He doesn't know.

_2._

He's not sure he wants to.

_1._

He doesn't care.

8:00.

"Hey Peggy." Steve kneeled on the wet grass. He would hear hell about the grass stains later from a certain Iron Man, but whatever.

"I made it. Saturday. Eight o'clock, on the dot. Just like you said."

He leaned his head against the headstone.

_Just seventy-or-so years late._

* * *

_Margaret "Peggy" Carter_

_19 April 1919_

_21 September 1940_

_An amazing daughter and soldier. _

_Killed in action._

* * *

Until _him_, the days are a blur, running together like watercolors on paper. The world keeps turning, like it has for the past seventy years. The people still laugh, still cry, still panic.

And evil never stops. It stills runs rampant. Quietly creeping beneath the floorboards, in the alleys, amongst the people in a busy city square. It's in the overly ambitious, budding scientist, the desperate college student, the tossed aside, rejects of society.

So the Avengers run as well. Still fighting, avenging, trying to at least slow down a seemingly unstoppable force.

"Captain! What the hell do you think you're doing?" Tony yelled through his com as he watched the super soldier flit amongst the ruins of the abandoned factory, the latest villain's robot army shooting at him.

"Sir, I believe he is trying to save Agent Barton," JARVIS stated matter-of-factly. The archer was currently struggling, successfully, out of a pile of dust and rubble. He would be out in a matter of minutes.

"I know, I know. But Barton is completely capable of doing that himself."

"Love you too, Stark," Clint muttered, pushing away another block of crumbling concrete.

"I'm just saying," Tony said, short-circuiting another damn robot. Where did villains get all their supplies? Tony practically had a robot army, and the cost of that would be detrimental to most people's bank accounts. He watched Thor happily smash one into a row of others, reducing them all into a resemblance of crushed cans. That's how. Cheap little things.

With horror, Tony watched one of the robots aim towards Clint, still a few pieces of rubble hindering his movement. He dashed towards it, putting everything he could into stopping that tin can from turning the agent into one of Tony's attempts at cooking: a burnt pile of ashes.

However, the Captain got their first, his shield barely deflecting the blast. With a grunt, he pulled Clint up and out of the ruins, tossing him to Tony. Without a word, he stalked off towards the mass of robots. Clint looked towards the metal mask, the feeling that something was wrong twisting his face.

Tony shook his helmeted head. He didn't know. He wasn't even sure Steve knew. All either of them knew was that Steve was oh-so desperately sticking his neck out for them. Willingly. Almost gladly.

And Natasha had called Tony "self-destructive."

* * *

Steve looked around the city as he drove through the almost dark streets, his home, yet not. His home was stuck seventy years in the past. Not this conglomeration of lights and billboards. He still loved it, but it was just so… far.

That's what everything felt like. Steve was just watching. It was like he was floating, high above, far below, but just _not there_. He just watched as his team fought, and the cars passed, and the world turned. He just gazed as he saw himself almost die in each battle, a dark glimmer of hope as he saw the lasers and bullets fly towards him.

He would never take the easy way out. No, Captain Rogers was no coward. He'd go out fighting.

But not for his country, which has lost so much. Too much.

Not for his team; who were they anyway? A bunch of cracked up people, defying the laws of nature, all broken, all trying to preserve a world almost as shattered as them.

So why?

His pride? Maybe. Or maybe just the memory. The memory of a better time. A better life. The life he should have had. Or the day it should have disappeared.

"'Ey! Watch where you're goin'!"

Steve looked up, startled. He hadn't been paying attention. His front wheel was inches from a man in dark sweats. Shouldn't he watch where _he's _going?

"Oy, you're talking out loud, buddy." The man was young, an inch or two under the average height. And rather...loud.

"You really oughta learn to think _internally_." Steve shook his head. What was wrong with him?

"There's a bar just down the block here; why don't I buy you a drink? You look in dire need of one." The man dropped his arms, initially up in an indignant position, and motioned in the direction of the bar's neon sign. He seemed less lithe, heavier, dripping with concern.

He was right. Steve could use a drink, just to feel the burn of alcohol, maybe burn away some of this… numbness. He parked his bike on the curb the man, who was really just a boy to Steve, had been jogging next to. He walked towards the man- or, more accurately, towards the bar.

"You don't talk much, do you?" The man jogged a bit to catch up to the super soldier. Steve didn't reply, he had his eye on the glowing red sign. _OPEN_.

The man gave a sad (understanding?) smile. "Name's Danny. Danny Harrison."

Steve gave a curt nod. "Steve. Rogers."

Danny paused momentarily in his light step. He almost got run over by Captain America. And now he was buying him a drink.

"Seem like I'm not the only one who should learn to think internally."


End file.
